“Vladimir, I am not at home,” she said solemnly, and the gray-haired, gray-whiskered functionary bowed in acknowledgment of the fact, which was far from evident.  When he was gone she sat down to her desk and wrote to Dr. Claudius.  She wrote rapidly in her large hand, and before long she had covered four pages of notepaper.  Then she read it over, and tore it up.  The word “dear” occurred once too often for her taste.  Again the white fingers flew rapidly along the page, but soon she stopped.

“That is too utterly frigid,” she said half aloud, with a smile.  Then she tried again.

“DEAR DR. CLAUDIUS—­So many thanks for your charming letter, which I received this morning.  Tell me a great deal more, please, and write at once.  Tell me everything you do and say and see, for I want to feel just as though you were here to talk everything over.

     “Mr. Barker has been here a good deal lately, and the other day he
     told me a story I did not like.  But I forgave him, for he seemed so
     penitent.  Please burn my letters.

“It is very cold and disagreeable, and I really half wish I were in Europe.  Europe is much pleasanter.  I have not read a word of Spencer since you left, but I have thought a great deal about what you said the last time we did any work together.

“Let me know positively when you are coming back, and let it be as soon as possible, for I must see you.  I am going to see Salvini, in Othello, to-night, with Miss Skeat.  He sent me a box, in memory of a little dinner years ago, and I expect him to call.  He did call, but I could not see him.

     “I cannot write any more, for it is dinner-time.  Thanks, dear, for
     your loving letter.  It was sweet of you to post it the same day,
     for it caught the steamer.

     —­In tearing haste, yours, M.

     “P.S.—­Answer all my questions, please.”

There was an indistinctness about the last word; it might have been “your,” or “yours.”  The “tearing haste” resolved itself into ringing the bell to know what time it was, for Margaret had banished the hideous hotel clock from the room.  On finding it was yet early, she sat down in a deep chair, and warmed her toes at the small wood fire, which was just enough to be enjoyable and not enough to be hot.  It was now the beginning of October, for Claudius’s letter, begun on the 15th of September, had not been posted until the 21st, and had been a long time on the way.  She wondered when he would get the letter she had just written.  It was not much of a letter, but she remembered the last paragraph, and thought it was quite affectionate enough.  As for Claudius, when he received it he was as much delighted as though it had been six times as long and a hundred times more expansive.  “Thanks, dear, for your loving letter,”—­that phrase alone acknowledged everything, accepted everything, and sanctioned everything.